Haven
by Annie Blythe
Summary: Finding your way back? It requires more than a change of uniform. Andy/Sam, post-S3 finale.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Easing back into things with a two or three-parter... Let me know how I do!

(It's like that first practice of the season, when your body isn't quite up to speed... What's the written equivalent of running a suicide, guys? I should probably do that.)

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Rookie Blue_. (Unrelated, what I wouldn't DO for a calendar timeline on this show... I never have any idea what month it is.)

* * *

Forehead pressed against cool glass, she taps a steady beat on the peeling rubber of the window sealant. The wind whistles quietly through a depression in the pane, a low _whoosh_ of air when the bus decelerates. From her perch, she watches the road, eyes sweeping over the rolling stretch of pavement.

She feels Nick next to her, the hot press of his thigh against her leg. They're squished on a bench seat that fits one comfortably; warmth bleeding through denim jeans and his fingers laced through hers. He squeezes her hand once, the barest pressure of his thumb. It's a simple, silent reassurance.

(_I'll never let go, Jack,_ he had said this morning, cracking a smile in their rundown cover apartment. They had locked the door for the last time, slipped into the dark hallway a half-hour before the sun rose.)

His grip is familiar, white-knuckled and tight.

She squeezes back.

* * *

The bus rumbles to a stop and she raises her hand in gratitude, acknowledging the driver. Her breath billows before her, white fog in the cold air. The bus is her last lifeline to Olivia Lord, and as she steps off the step, realization hits her. This feeling that time has begun again, a quiet _tick-tock_ that heralds something deeper…

A shiver courses through her body, and she adjusts the buttons of her frayed, wool coat.

Nick keeps his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. His voice is light when he breaks the silence, a teasing murmur undercut by his sober posture.

"Home again, home again, jiggity jig."

* * *

They linger outside the bus bay, stamping their feet against the bitter wind. A driver picks them up outside Fifteen's radius; brings them to the Barn in an unmarked car.

She and Nick are separated at the door. He releases her with a faint elbow squeeze; instructs her to get a good night's sleep. Promises donuts and whisky (in that order) on Thursday, then waltzes off doing his best Gary Portnoy.

_"Sometimes you wanna go, where everybody knows your name..."_

(He's spent the last week making every attempt to coax a smile from her. It's a valiant effort, a final stand before they both come face-to-face with TPS and all they left behind.)

She braces her shoulders and heads to Interview Two.

* * *

Three hours of debrief later, her eyes follow Luke as he closes his notebook. Without conscious thought, she stretches her fingertips toward the cover, tracing the black lettering of his name. His penmanship is rigid, an upright scrawl that is equal parts haunting and familiar, and she feels a minute pang in the corner of her heart.

(Notes on the fridge and a tacky birthday card that _sang_; say what you will, but they were happy, once upon a time.)

She watches him grip the pen and release it; her gaze drawn to his bare left hand. She thinks about them, a million years ago and then some. Wonders, briefly, how it would have worked in an alternate universe.

He sees something in her eyes, probably, and nods toward the door. "Come in Tuesday, and we'll have your statement ready, Officer McNally."

He hesitates at the door, a nearly imperceptible stutter to his stride. His voice is softer when he speaks again.

"You did well, Andy. You should be proud."

She nods once in acknowledgment, not trusting her voice.

Luke turns on his heel and exits.

* * *

It's Dov who meets her outside Fifteen, civilian clothes and a hug that, with its ferocity and warmth, threatens to burst her carefully-constructed dam.

She holds on an extra moment, tucking her face into his corduroy jacket and exhaling slowly.

(Everything the same, and yet so different...)

She's tired, that's all.

* * *

The hallway is dark when she lets herself in; key groaning in the lock from the winter swell and disuse. She sweeps a hand across the familiar planes of the kitchen counter, through the light accumulation of dust, before she shuffles to her bedroom.

_It's over,_ she thinks silently, sliding under the cool sheets. The 180-thread, microfiber count is a premium compared to her bedding in recent weeks.

Her phone beeps and she flips it open, stifling a laugh. Her fingers tap a quick response to Nick's text about her long day's journey into night.

(He read a lot in Afghanistan, she was surprised to learn. Dramas, mostly, settings he could assign that extended beyond arid terrain. He likes O'Neill and Wilson; family dynamics and cultural divides. _Hopelessness and the plight of the Irish_, he had jokingly explained one afternoon. _Sound about right, McNally?_)

She wants to ask if the icewoman cometh, but if his day has been anything like hers, he could use a reprieve from teasing. She settles for a warm good night; urges him to come over for beers and bad reality TV on the weekend.

_Reunion special_, he responds, adding two exclamation points; then, _Also, you'd totally be my partner for Road Rules._

She feels the corner of her mouth twitch, oddly relieved that despite this transition, the break-up buddy system lives on.

(Burrowing under her fleece throw, she tries not to think about the one face that's been glaringly absent today.)

* * *

Her leave is mandated, a full week from work and a psychological evaluation, progressive steps to prove she has moved on from her UC life.

(She's moved on from a lot more than that.)

Traci barrels through her door on day two; a late-afternoon shift and Leo over the hump of third-grade influenza. She greets Andy with flailing arms, a tight hug, and water cooler gossip, and it's almost as if no time has passed.

(Almost. Andy catches a brief, sad spark in her eye, an ever-present reminder of Fifteen's tragedy. A reminder that when Andy fled, she left more than just one person behind.)

Traci studies her with a calculated, maternal eye, deems her overtired and underfed, and insists on ordering food before she leaves. _Greens, Andy. For god's sake, would it kill you to work some K-vitamins into your diet? _

(It's well-intentioned and the slightest bit nagging, and Andy welcomes it with a sort of wistfulness from her teenage years.)

"Missed you," she says quietly, squeezing Traci's shoulders. "God, I missed you so much, Trace."

"Don't ever do that again," Traci replies with a laugh, mouth wide and affectionate. Her command is punctuated by a less forceful addendum: "You know what you need to do now, right?"

Andy plays cool like Frank at the Sands. Traci, to her credit, doesn't buy it.

"And wear those jeans when you do it," Traci calls over her shoulder as she exits, stern glare softening to an impish smirk. She flashes her teeth in Andy's direction. "Your ass looks killer. Seriously."

* * *

She eases slowly back into a schedule, mornings that begin with fitness workouts and nights capped with a glass of red wine. She relishes the little things: sorting her mail, shooting hoops with Leo, making egg-white omelets on a whim.

(Sacrifice navigates both superficial and deep waters, at least where UC is concerned.)

It's why she is less than prepared for day six; why her guard slips and her game face disappears. She spends the afternoon in the park of all places - Eats a hot dog because she can, not because she's waiting on a handler and attempting to blend.

(It's a no-strings, no-op hot dog, and for the record, it tastes pretty damn good.)

It only takes a moment, a second when her attention is duly focused on ketchup application.

Four words.

(Four words from a time capsule, a corner of her heart that has been studiously and blatantly ignored. A thousand late nights and a hundred early mornings, squabbles over the radio and bad jokes in the cruiser, his mouth by her ear and her hands on his chest. Cheap shots in the locker room and make-ups in the parking lot, his window rolled down at the drive-thru and her giggling from the passenger side. Black coffee and brown-sugar glaze, sparring gloves and a bucket seat, the low drawl on the phone line and an imprint on a pillow...)

"Always loved the autumn."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**_ Thank you for your patience with me! I had hoped to have this chapter out much earlier, but the best laid plans of mice and men... Well, this was much, much harder to write than I anticipated. In any case, I'm sincerely indebted to you, the readers. I cannot adequately express my gratitude for the reviews, PMs, follows, et al. I hope this chapter was worth the (eek, unforgivably long) wait._

_Briefly: This story is meant neither to vilify nor glorify Andy. I'm trying to give plausible credence to her emotion, and at the end of the day, emotion is personal and complex - Different strokes for different folks. The "big" conversation will happen in the third and final installment of 'Haven,' which will be posted later this week. For what it's worth, both Sam and Andy will have an opportunity to reflect on the breakup and vocalize some frustrations._

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own _Rookie Blue_.

* * *

.

* * *

Sensory overload leaves her with an overwhelming need to grasp at_ something_, and she closes her eyes, one fist curling around the red lacquered wood of the park bench.

(His tone is familiar, this sharp, wry quality she associates with late-night patrols; the muffled, background buzz of the radio and hasty gulps of coffee. To her chagrin, he maintains a masterful blend of pointed observation and feigned nonchalance.)

It's the warm, wriggling body of a Jack Russell that draws her from her stupor; soft, spotted coat brushing against her leg.

Her hand unfurls slowly. The hot dog slides through her fingers, bun careening violently toward the damp earth.

* * *

**[six months earlier]**

_"He wanted to get a dog," she says abruptly, eyes burning a veritable hole in the ceiling._

_(It feels good to say it, _satisfying_; some confirmation of how ludicrous his words were, how insignificant in the aftermath.)_

_She swipes the heel of her palm under her eye, mindful of the raw skin. Three weeks into UC, and Nick is the closest thing to a shrink she has– _

_On this side of the fence, anyway._

_"Like, who_ says_ that?" She wrinkles her nose and screws her eyes shut, this habit that won't quit. "'Hi honey. Tough day at the office, huh? But hey, since we're handling our own shit so well, why not throw another little guy in the mix? We'll name him Boo.'"_

_Nick chokes out a quiet laugh but doesn't immediately reply. Rearranging himself on the cushioned chair, he tips his head back on the armrest. Stares at his hands for a prolonged moment, eyes narrowed in quiet concentration. __After a brief pause, he turns his head in her direction. "Andy–"_

_"Olivia," she corrects without thinking. Folding her arms over her chest, she anticipates his wry surprise and shrugs. "What? Just trying to maintain realism, _Jordan_."_

_Nick laughs again, harder and louder this time. "Such terrible boy-band vibes. Makes me wanna sing in falsetto." After a few minutes, he collects himself. Drawing a deep breath, he tries again._

_"_O-liv-ia_," he emphasizes, eyebrows drawn together soberly. "C'mon. Break it down in caveman-speak."_

_"A dog is not a superficial promise," he continues gently, maintaining an unnerving line of eye contact. "A pet is nothing if not a giant herald of commitment. They need stability, a good home. You don't just throw that idea around casually."_

_As Nick stares at the speckled tile, his chest rises and falls with the force of his breath. "Kennels? They're expensive, dude. Do you know what it costs to board a dog?" __He wills her to connect the dots, eyeing her sympathetically. "Timing sucked, no question. But... But it doesn't mean it wasn't heartfelt."_

_His tone becomes impossibly soft, as if recognizing her fragility. "_Andy_. Doesn't mean he wasn't genuine. __ Because if that's not the biggest goddamn declaration from him; some twilight-zone pledge, no more undercovers or extended leaves of absence..." _

_Inexplicably, she feels her eyes fill with tears. Her shoulders stiffen, and her next words are vehement. "Still a stupid thing to say by way of apology."_

_"Yeah," Nick concedes. He picks at a loose thread on the hem of his thermal. "You're right. He was an idiot. One split-second confession doesn't make up for it."_

_"Talk to me when I'm not knocking on death's door," she mutters angrily to an invisible Sam, to the universe at large. She shakes her head, indignation fading to exasperation. "Not that it doesn't happen, like, all the time - Me and potentially fatal situations. Seriously, Nick, I..."_

_She stretches across the couch, lost in thought. __"I miss him," she offers in a smaller voice, minutes – hours? – later. "Too much, really. I must be the biggest dope, I swear."_

_"Nah," Nick replies with a shake of his head. The corner of his mouth twitches, and he tosses a small throw pillow at her. "If anyone takes the prize for pathetic, homesick fool... Me, I got a beautiful girl traipsing across Europe, probably ready to toss me like last week's leftovers. She'll meet a dashing French tour guide who can _parlez-vous_ beautifully and doesn't burn like a yellow roman candle."_

_"What!?" he yelps, ducking to avoid the glancing blow of the throw pillow, returned with a quick flick of Andy's wrist. He catches it by its outdated maroon fringe, and with his arm aloft, points to his pale forearm. "You mock, but it's a real problem." _

_"Our kids would look like Humperdinck's Albino," he adds seriously, arching a brow. "Possibly with lips in a fetching shade of red; you never know. _For god's sake_, show some sensitivity, Olivia."_

_Andy's choked laugh echoes across the expanse of the apartment, sound filling the hollow space. It's the first time she's felt like smiling in recent weeks, the first time Nick has drawn it out of her. She meets his gaze with a tiny smirk. "You're insane. You know that, right?"_

_"Maybe," Nick grants with a flicker of a grin. "But you gotta be, right? You gotta be a little crazy to do what we do."_

* * *

Just as quickly as the terrier brushes past, it retreats again.

"Scout, _sit_."

The command is forceful, underscored by a snap of his fingers. The motion serves to break Andy from her reverie, a dull ache flaring in her chest as his voice moves through her.

Memories flood in one fell swoop: loaded conversation and hidden meanings, the layers and walls that existed from his first _McNally_. She can picture him now, nose in the fridge as he makes a smart remark about organic milk. Teasing smirk as he leans against the door jamb of the locker room, fingers drumming on the steel frame. That vaguely predatory look he'd get late at night, fifteen minutes shy of clocking out and a free weekend on deck. _Big plans, copper?_

She feels the sting of tears behind her eyes, an uncomfortable pinprick of emotion. No bones about it: She _missed_ him.

(Going undercover? Probably not her best move if the endgame was to forget.)

Still: All this time, and she doesn't know if _missing_ is enough.

* * *

Standing slowly, she shades a hand across her brow to look at him.

He's squinting in the bright afternoon sun, eyes flickering between the ground and her empty hand.

"Well," he begins evenly, lips pursed in vague amusement. He offers a pointed look at the abandoned ketchup packet, then the hot dog. "_That _was fruitless."

It takes her a moment to recognize the gesture for what it is -

(He's never been an easy read, buried feelings wrapped in the guise of hambulances and henways. Still, there's something about his tone that suggests a temporary reprieve. Softer around the edges; the disparity between _bark_ and _bite_ less pronounced.)

He keeps his voice light, despite the thick cloud of tension that surrounds them. Waits to catch her eye, then tries a smile on for size.

"Catch up, did ya?" he teases, one hand rubbing his jaw. "Thought UC was supposed to make your senses sharper, more keen."

He shrugs once, grin twisting and fading infinitesimally. "Guess I've, uh. Been wrong before."

* * *

The silence is deafening for several moments. Sounds gradually penetrate their bubble; the subdued chirping of birds and a pack of kids splashing noisily by a fountain, then...

"Sam."

The word slips from her lips, quiet and unassuming: a soft syllable that has rested in the corner of her mouth through an interminable winter season, unnamed and hidden.

(_Transition_, Best had called it, clapping her on the back when she returned. She's reminded of his speech now; how once-familiar sights and sounds are irrevocably altered and grown and changed.)

His gaze is probing, assessing. The back of her neck flushes with heat: a reminder of the early months, mornings in parade when she felt eyes on her and couldn't quite pinpoint...

(Six days of rediscovery and adaptation, and it's still not enough.)

* * *

The dog barks impatiently, demanding their attention.

Andy's gaze falls to the terrier, and she crouches instinctively. Her knuckles graze the soft skin between the puppy's ears.

"Hi there," she coos softly. "You're a pretty girl, huh?"

_A dog._ The word plays on loop in her mind, unrelenting. _Did he...? Would he...?_

"Yours?" she questions, glancing up at him. Her fingernails, tucked forcefully into her left palm, pierce the thin layer of skin, and she works to correct the slight tremor in her voice.

"Sare's," Sam answers gruffly, palm relaxing its grip on the leash. "Got roped into dogsitting while they're on vacation. Don't ask me how it happened."

He huffs out a laugh, a little friendlier this time. "Actually, I can tell you exactly how it happened: Two pigtails and a pleading chorus of _Uncle Sammy_s."

She nods, lips curving into a faint smile. Now seems an appropriate time to showcase that undercover backbone: _I may bend but not break._

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, keeps her dark eyes fixed on him. "It was nice of you, Sam."

"Yeah, well," he hedges. He gives her the definitive once-over, checking his emotion at the door. Then, without preamble: "You good?"

(And that's tried-and-true gameplay, a routine with which she is well-acquainted. Familiar, often frustrating territory.)

"Good," she echoes, voice and hands steady as she straightens. Then, because she's spent half a year lying, either overtly or by omission, she heaves a sigh and releases the death grip she has on the back of the bench.

At the very least, she owes him honesty.

"Tired," she corrects, running a hand through her hair. She's vaguely aware she has the magic jeans on; is suddenly grateful she took the time to wash them again last night. Shallow, yes, but they're molded to her hips now. "It's taking me a while to get into a groove. I, um... I was going to call, I just..."

"Yeah," Sam interrupts, rocking forward on his heels before abruptly stilling. "Yeah, uh. Me too."

At her bewildered expression, he lowers his voice, eyes focusing on a spot in the distance. "Oliver, uh, called a few days back. Said you and Collins made it back in one piece."

"Oh," she continues in a smaller voice. She's not sure what to make of that information, truth be told. "Oh, that's _good_," she continues quickly, hoping he overlooks her near misstep. "I mean, I'm glad that he kept you updated. Not that, um, you needed to be updated or anything; not that you were even wondering, _god_, I just thought that-"

"I'm glad he called, too," he interjects, cutting her off. "I–" He pauses, painfully inarticulate. "Yeah."

She bites her lip, dropping her eyes to the ground under his studied gaze. She's gone from zero to sixty and back again, adrenaline pumping as she attempts to deflect the attention. Deciding that switching gears is her best option, she kicks the ground, then glances up at him. "You, um, working this week?"

"On this afternoon," Sam admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wanted to get the dog walked before I went in. Anyway, I should be…" Jerking a thumb in the direction of the street, he takes a step back. Offers a vague smile she thinks is meant to be reassuring, and really, truly _isn't._

He moves to detangle the leash from the bench around which Scout is currently bounding. Hesitating, he meets her eye, then seemingly changes his mind.

(For a moment, she thought–

_God_, she thought–)

"Back to work soon?" he finishes, tone suspiciously uneasy.

She nods a quick _yes_, thrusting her hands in her pockets. "Monday. Got the mandated leave, but they'll make me dust off the badge soon enough." Her smile is nervous, a wide flash of teeth as she futzes with the denim. "Hope I'm not too rusty, you know?"

"I know," Sam says, a ghost of a smile on his face. Yanking on Scout's leash, he begins to move away from her. "You'll be fine, McNally."

She nods once, acknowledging his assurance. Doesn't trust her voice with more.

His parting words are carried over his shoulder by the wind–

(Andy wonders if they're an afterthought; so soft, that perhaps he didn't want her to hear.)

"Been there."

A single beat, then–

"You'll make it."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for sticking with me, whether you agree/disagree with this fictional take or the (admittedly) contrived plot devices therein. To reiterate: This is merely one interpretation of Andy's feelings... I won't pretend it's gospel truth, nor will I defend its singular validity. Read what you must, and take away what you will.

Be forewarned: There's a bit of cursing ahead.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own these emotionally deficient knuckleheads, nor do I own the lyrics of Dave Matthews. (It's probably for the best.)

* * *

_I am no superman,_  
_I have no answers for you_  
_I am no hero; oh, that's for sure_  
_But I do know one thing:_  
_Where you are, is where I belong_

* * *

One foggy grocery run and a jumble of feelings later, she's stretched out on the living room couch; thick, down blanket wrapped around her shoulders and sweatpants on standby. The non-perishables lay scattered on her counter, and she hazards a quick glance toward the kitchen, wincing at what she finds.

Dental floss, a sleeve of saltines, and a five-pound bag of carrots.

(She has no idea where her head's at. She's reasonably confident she's not a draft pick for _Supermarket Sweep, _anyway.)

Sighing, she sweeps her hair into a high ponytail. Her hot cocoa sits untouched on her coffee table, marshmallows melting fast against white ceramic. It's a poor attempt at recovery; this nostalgic, adolescent idea that it will all be okay. She probably should have guessed that any hallmarks of her childhood are better left as bygones: As usual, memory bears a price.

Her mind wanders to Sam; to this renewed need to understand _why_: why they 'started' if they weren't going to see it through properly. If it was all chemical; this intense, animal attraction that stemmed from physical compatibility. If, after everything - storage lockers and sparring mats, the bad and the good - they were going to go their separate ways.

_We were messy_, she thinks, fingers tracing the seam of the couch cushion. _We weren't over._

* * *

She didn't walk away from that night unscathed. It's not like she didn't think about it, long days in the warehouse and lonely nights on her lousy twin mattress: _You don't have to do anything, I'll do everything._

(It's the honest-to-god only time she saw an earnestness to Sam actions.)

Even now it haunts her: bright, dark eyes and his pleading tone; the urgency in his stride as he bolted after her. Her gaze falls to her fingers, and she curls them involuntarily, remembering the death-grip she had on her shoulder strap.

She knows he meant it: the dinner-making, dog-walking, trust-earning offer.

The problem?

When he said, _You won't get rid of me without a fight...?_

He meant that too.

* * *

Hours later, both her brain and her dinner are fried.

Sending a stack of dishes clattering to the bottom of the sink, she rubs her forehead wearily. The day has left her with a bone-tired ache, complemented only by a dull, radiating pain in her chest.

"You win," she huffs, arching a single eyebrow at the offender: brown rice burned to the bottom of the saucepan. "Universe - 1, Andy McNally - 0. I fold."

Rolling up on her toes, she fumbles for the top shelf of her pantry, fingers grasping at familiar silver foil. One pop of the toaster later, and she sinks onto the kitchen barstool. Decides, with limited conviction, that artificial blueberry will suffice for food and friend tonight.

It's two sharp, insistent raps on the front door that penetrate her reverie.

(And peepholes are there for a reason; seriously, after everything that happened in her apartment? But Mrs. Wellington has been at her door every day since her return; _It's lovely to see you, Andrea,_ and _Plants make things homey, don't they? _and_ I baked a few dozen extra cookies - You know Arthur and his diabetes; have to find someone to eat them!_ In short: She's been sweet and persistent, and Andy has not been in a position to refuse sentimental, maternal gestures.)

Well.

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.

* * *

Yanking the door open, she plasters a smile on her face, hoping her expression is reasonably convincing. And slick move, universe; kick a girl while she's down_—_

It's not an emerald green housecoat on her doorstep: A dark, bowed head greets her; one well-built forearm braced against the door frame.

The neighborly "hello" dies abruptly on her lips.

(Just as quickly, Nick's in her ear like an offensive coordinator; _fourth quarter, fourth quarter, fourth quarter__—)_

She's vaguely aware of her sharp intake of breath. It's confirmed when Sam's head jerks up, dark eyes flying to meet hers.

"Andy."

(Low and familiar, his voice, this early-morning gravel that is equal parts gentle and rough, and she can't hold his gaze; _she can't—_)

* * *

She's not sure how it happens: when she let go of the knob, maybe, or when her traitorous feet backpedaled into the condo.

Regardless: He interprets the movement as a green light, and surely - if slowly, eyes fixed on her face - follows her inside.

"Sam," she begins quietly. Rubbing her arms briskly, she moves past him to close the door. Takes a moment to breathe before she turns. "What- What are you doing here?"

He huffs out a laugh, loaded and the tiniest bit desperate. His eyes are searching, this speculative gaze that unnerves her.

(Watchful, always. That part hasn't changed.)

"Dunno," he says after a long pause. He scratches the back of his neck, this casual tick that's a dead giveaway - He's not as cool and collected as he pretends to be. "Seemed like a good first step after sitting in the parking lot for twenty minutes, but uh. Maybe that's wishful thinking."

"Got the skinny from Nash," he continues after a moment. "Gave me the whole lowdown this afternoon. Heard you kicked some serious ass on the task force."

(File that under compliments she was _not_ expecting.)

"Thanks," she manages, genuine surprise to her tone. It seems superfluous to say now, but since he's making an effort at general courtesy, she could contribute: "It just materialized. I, um, had five minutes to decide, and they... Well. You know."

"Yeah," he says with a wry smile. "Yeah, I know."

(It's the world's worst game of chess; opponents who know each other's tells but have no advancing strategy.)

They stand there, locked in stalemate.

She keeps her cards close to her chest.

Waits for his move.

* * *

"I don't know what to do, Andy," he offers slowly.

His eyes bounce around the room before settling on her. It's not nervous, the movement, but it's definitely _unnerved_. "I don't know how to do _this—_ You were gone for seven months, and now you're back, and _I can't—_"

His eyes close, and he swallows forcibly.

Two, then three seconds pass.

"This," he continues emphatically, gesturing between them. "Whatever _this_ is, beating around the bush and not saying anything at the park... I thought it was the right way to play it, but I just spent six hours in the D's office wondering what happens next and at what point _I_ became such a goddamn overthinker."

His words slice through her, painful emotion bubbling - clawing - in her throat.

"Nash finally kicked me out," he says wryly, rubbing his jaw. His voice drops to a low rumble, and she sees it in his eyes: the defeat.

"Andy_—" _

He looks at her, through her, eyes heavy with something she can't identify.

"I'm not looking for answers tonight. I just think... Things are shaking up at 15, and maybe it's better if we take care of this before you're back on active duty_—__"_

(And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you strike a nerve.)

* * *

"Take care of _this_?" she interjects, voice eerily calm. "Take care of _what_, exactly?"

She feels her temper flare at his words, _implications_ more than anything else, insinuations about her ability to cooperate professionally. The anger spikes before she can rein it in.

"Andy."

(His voice is sober, and she hates it: Hates the pounding of her head and the thumping in her heart; hates what her name on his lips does to her.)

"What do you want me to do, Sam? Was I supposed to run into your arms and hit 'play,' tell you how_ happy _I was to hear you say you loved me; brush away every shitty thing that you made me feel... Everything I second-guessed about myself in the aftermath?"

(Possibly she has not worked through the residual anger quite as well as she hoped. Gloves might be coming off.)

The next words come out in a rush, everything felt but unspoken: mental dissections of their relationship that left her tossing and turning for weeks.

"It took my hand around a bomb—" She breaks off, unable to put the sentiment to words. "How does that look to you, Sam? Genuine or not, it _felt_ convenient, hedging your bets or something stupid like that, and I—"

She catches the subtle hardening of his eyes, the flex of a clenched jaw. "It was more than that, Andy. You know that, and _I_ know that—"

"I don't know _anything_, Sam," she chokes out, throwing her hands in the air. Losing some of her heat, she fumbles for a chair and sinks into the cushion. Wills the tear ducts to subsume any moisture.

(Just like that, the anger disappears, replaced by something else entirely.)

When she speaks again, her voice is barely more than a whisper. "I don't know because you don't _tell_ me anything. After Jerry- God, Sam, I wasn't asking for promises and declarations when I followed you into the parking lot. I was asking you to _talk_ to me; I was trying to console a loved one who was grieving. It hurt me that you were hurting; can't you see that?"

"If splitting was in the cards for us; fine," she continues fiercely. "But not like that. _**Not**_ like that. In the parking lot, in the rain, after the day we had—"

She slumps forward, and this time, she can't suppress the emotion in her voice.

"Without a fight, Sam. Without _any_ kind of fight."

"We were partners. I've seen you fight for kids you've known all of two hours, fight to serve and protect and see justice through, and I loved you for that, Sam. Loved you for that kind of drive, for the person and cop it _made_ you."

She raises her eyes, finally meeting his gaze. "After everything we've been through... you couldn't fight for us?"

* * *

The silence that follows is consuming.

(She's vaguely aware of the timer _dinging_ in the kitchen, but her ears register heavy footfalls before anything else.)

"It took me weeks to work it out. Miserable weeks."

He holds her burning gaze, eyes blazing as he moves toward her. And with the flip of a switch, his voice is an octave lower, and there's something unguarded and shaky about the timbre.

"I'm not saying it was right. Christ, I know what I _did_, Andy."

His face - his voice - softens infinitesimally. "Took me weeks to realize that I'd rather have you; weeks to see the regrets I was racking up by shutting you out. After everything with Jerry—"

Her lip quivers, and she works to suppress the tumult of emotion. "S_—_"

He pauses, holding up a hand to cut her off. His voice comes tightly, underscored by the pain in his eyes. "I needed to be by myself; I needed to figure that out by myself. And I don't know what it will take; don't know how to fix it... I messed up, Andy."

"I don't know what step one is," he says bluntly. He raises his hands in surrender. "I thought maybe it was saying_ I love you;_ thought that could be the first of a bunch of steps..."

"I didn't need you to _say_ it, Sam," she murmurs, shaking her head.

(Hell in a handbasket, this conversation going nothing like she could have anticipated...)

Her pitch rises as she considers the significance; silently willing him to understand. "God, Sam, how many times do people just say those words, without any thought at all?"

"_I love you, kiddo_," she intones, this low lilt that recalls Tommy. "_I'll get better, I promise._ And what got better? Not his resolve to stop drinking, not his long hours or sloppy casework... And then everything with Claire: _She loves you, honey. Mom just... had to leave for mom, okay?_"

"Sam, you _showed_ me," she continues with a hard swallow, throat constricting. "You showed me what you felt, and I thought..."

(His actions had said it all: warm, rough palm seeking hers after shift, fingers lacing tightly. A birthday hat, wildly perched on the side of his head. Knuckles dragging gently through her hair, thumb sweeping across her bare arm as she rested her head in his lap. Cupcakes and flour, ice cream and faded cotton tees; this goofy, affectionate look he'd get when she laughed at one of his jokes. It lit a spark in her body, this sharp thrill in her stomach and warm glow in her bones...)

"I didn't need you to say it," she chokes out. "I _knew_ it. And maybe I was naive or misguided... But after all that, after the promises you made, you still walked away... Walked away with a throwaway line like, _Maybe we can be friends_?"

"Sam..." she trails off quietly, shaking her head. "If you think I can just say those words... Say 'I love you' after everything we've been through, and then just stop feeling it? Stop and _be friends_?"

She lifts her chin, searching him out.

"I'm a fixer, Sam. And I couldn't fix my dad drinking or my mom leaving, but that doesn't mean I stopped trying, alright? That's the way I deal with things; it's part of the reason I became a cop. And I follow hunches and leads and _god_ knows I'm not perfect, Sam; you've been witness to a hundred and one screw-ups in the field, but I wanted to do this right. I wanted to do _us_ right."

She sucks in a harsh breath. "If I pushed you too much after Jerry- If I pushed you too far, I'm sorry. But I knew you were hurting, and it _hurt_ me to see you hurting..."

Her eyes remain fixed on him: stiff posture and tense muscles; hard, compact body that's poised to spring.

_Both made for running_, she acknowledges.

She wonders if, after all this, they'll have any staying power left.

* * *

"It could have been you."

His voice reaches her ears, flat and empty.

"I spent the day twisted inside and out, worrying about you; worrying about the drugs in your system, and what if it was something more... Because you're headstrong and stubborn and determined as _fuck_, and I love that about you Andy, but it drives me _crazy_... That you can't take five seconds to recuperate, to let your body process what happened. Charging ahead, half-cocked and reckless, is how you end up bleeding out at a crime scene, or in the trunk of some loon's car, and I can't- "

He breaks off, fighting to control his voice. "And what if it were me? What if Nash or Oliver found you in the waiting room and had to break the news... Shit, Andy, I've never had to worry about that before, alright? All those years of UC... They pick the lone wolves on purpose; the cops that aren't leaving families and loved ones behind. And I can't do that in the field; navigate those personal and professional lines in half a second without regretting something; without someone getting hurt."

He lowers his voice marginally. "I couldn't find that balance, Andy. I'm not some relationship savant or boyfriend of the goddamn year, and I don't want you carrying that... Carrying what Nash is carrying." His shoulders tense, jaw flexing. "And I _can't_ carry it; can't see you lowered into six feet of dirt while some stiff waxes poetic about your career and service and..."

"If you don't know how important..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "I didn't say it enough when we were together, and one conversation doesn't change that... I'm sorry, Andy. Sorry for how I acted and how we ended, and I..."

He shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what happens with us. I don't know where we go, rebounding from seven months apart and a heap of shit before that, but I..."

"I know I missed you," he continues softly. His hand finds her knee, warm pressure and the lightest graze of his fingertips. "You're sitting here, and I still miss you, and however this shakes out, I need your help."

* * *

It's the most she's ever heard from him in one sitting, this onslaught of feeling and emotion.

It's honesty, finally, that compels her to speak.

"I don't know if I would have come that night - to the Penny, I mean. But I knew how I felt about you, and I knew that it wasn't going away..."

Her voice drops to a whisper, and she chances a glance at him. "It hasn't gone away, Sam."

(It's an acknowledgment, sincere and honest: The hope that exists beneath fragments of painful history and broken promises, everything that has yet to be resolved. It's not a blank slate or unencumbered start, but it's something.)

She doesn't know what comes next.

(It's comforting to know she's not alone.)

He reaches tentatively for her hand, fingers stopping three centimeters shy.

She glances down at their hands. Glances up at his face.

Closes the gap with the brush of her thumb.

Figures, for now, this is an okay start.


End file.
